


a thousand frail ways home

by JPlash



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: Apocalypse, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: (a sad shark. But still a shark.), Apocalypse spoilers, Charles does not even understand when this became his life, Erik is a Shark, Grief/Mourning, Hank is so done with this, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Telepathic Sex, sex on a plane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 18:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6917662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JPlash/pseuds/JPlash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>⎡I do not ‘whine’.⎦ Charles grits his teeth again, this time on a low moan that he manages not to voice. ⎡God that’s good.⎦</p><p>⎡Mm.⎦</p><p>⎡We're surrounded by students, Erik.⎦</p><p>⎡Jean’s asleep, isn’t she?⎦ Another very tiny smirk. ⎡But it’s your telepathy, Charles, not mine. If you don’t want to feel it, then don’t.⎦</p>
            </blockquote>





	a thousand frail ways home

Just for a change, they have no obvious way to get home.

They send Peter off in one direction and Kurt off in another in search of planes that look airworthy, and Charles reflects that at least this time, their only transport-useful mutations didn’t bail off together into hiding. Washington hadn’t been so bad (Hank had just carried him far enough from the wreckage that cabs were still operating). Cuba was the real nightmare: the boys had eventually found a truck, but getting out of the country had still been interesting. Of course, they have no idea how bad the damage is, here. Peter and Kurt might come back on their half hour checkin to say every vehicle in the city is a crumpled heap. If nothing else, Charles supposes, Erik can probably take them all beyond the destruction radius via giant metal raft, but it could be a long trip.

Hank lifts Charles after a few minutes, and there is an awkward attempt at making some sort of mattress of everyone’s jackets. It’s marginally more comfortable than the broken ground, but Charles is still shivering and horribly weak, and it’s not at the front of his mind. They wrap him in a weird cape thing from their new addition, Ororo, and it doesn’t actually add any warmth, but he’s not shivering because he’s cold. It’s sunlit summer in Egypt. Hank sits by him and stares like something might attack if he looks away. Jean falls asleep minutes after everyone settles, curled in a corner that’s still standing. Erik stands silent in the centre of the room, a safe distance from anyone else, because Hank looks murderous if he stands too close. He’s watching them all, though. Mostly Charles.

Charles ignores him for the first ten minutes, is busy watching Jean (telepathically; he’s too wrapped up to see much of anyone who isn’t standing). Her sleep is deeper than dreams. She’s drained, perhaps even more so than he is. He’s not sure even he knew she was _that_ powerful; he’s sure she didn’t. When he draws back, eventually, he pokes around the new girl’s head a little bit, for safety’s sake. She’s not malicious or cruel, just tired and young, desperate and easily influenced; took up with the first fellow mutant she’d ever met, the first person in years to offer a kind word. Worships Raven; wants to do good. She’ll fit in well at the school, he thinks, with time to adjust.

He sort of tries to check on Raven without actually looking, which works about as well as it ever does; soothes Hank a little, in the way that always makes him smile and roll his eyes. Flits into Scott’s mind and out again, because there is a screaming question there as to whether Alex is alive and Charles is just not even remotely prepared to deal with that possibility right now (and he knows the human mind, knows how it denies death: if there were any chance that he’s alive, Scott wouldn’t be considering the possibility that he’s not; but Charles is human too, and Scott is young and not used to all of this, and Alex is a survivor, survived Vietnam when all the rest died, and surely he’s alive, just unconscious somewhere, perhaps, and this is what Charles decides to believe, somewhere deeper than conscious decisions, despite what he knows).

Then, and only then, does he let his mind turn to Erik—not because he especially wants it to, but because Erik’s mind has always been, well, magnetic to him—pun probably intended, some time decades ago, when he was younger and more impressed with his own brilliance, and with Erik's. Erik looks to him at once, instant, as though it hasn’t been twenty years plus since they were properly, closely linked for any period of time.

For a minute, that’s all there is: looking, and the jagged edges of Erik’s world, grief and rage and self-loathing, and the jagged edges of Charles’s, grief and fury and the desperate, exhausted need to just sink beyond thought and reason and himself.

There’s a fierceness and a despair in Erik’s thoughts though, for more than what he’s lost, and Charles has never been good at leaving things be. ⎡What did Raven say to you?⎦

Erik doesn’t physically startle at the silent voice, and barely mentally; only, impossibly, takes a moment to project back his own. ⎡Why?⎦

Charles isn’t sure why. ⎡Maybe I want to know for next time.⎦

Erik seems to consider that. ⎡Nothing, really.⎦

He’s hedging, which is unlike Erik. Charles waits.

⎡She reminded me of…us, I think. Us twenty years ago, when all the kids were still alive. Maybe. I couldn’t let him take you.⎦

Charles thinks about that, a tiny frown, until he thinks he understands with only minimal poking around on the very edges of Erik’s thoughts. He doesn’t say anything; there’s no comparison, between what they had and what Erik’s lost. But he thinks he understands.

More than anything else, though, Erik’s thoughts are conflicted. ⎡It’s not that-,⎦ He stops, starts over. ⎡I’ve never wanted you hurt, Charles. That never changed, but-,⎦ And again.

⎡You believe in what you’ve always believed in.⎦

⎡Of course.⎦

⎡Then…?⎦

⎡I don’t think he was interested in the welfare of our brothers so much as in his own power.⎦

That makes Charles stare for a moment. ⎡Well, yes. Obviously.⎦

⎡I was very…my mind was elsewhere. It wasn’t immediately obvious to me.⎦

⎡It didn’t become apparent when he asked you to raze the planet? Even if this—rubble— were only Cairo, which I understand it's not, I can guarantee you've killed mutants, Erik. Children. Their parents.⎦

Erik is never, ever sheepish, and rarely sorry, but there is a thick shadow of something like regret. ⎡I was angry.⎦

Charles nods, between their minds, because—yes.

⎡And…I didn’t want to stop for you, when I couldn’t manage it for my own daughter.⎦

Charles only lets his breath catch the briefest moment; it’s not obvious to anyone, he doesn’t think. He’s not in the best shape right now. ⎡What changed your mind?⎦

⎡I don’t know.⎦

He does—or there’s something he’s holding back, at least. Charles does _not_ push further. Much.

But Erik doesn’t really fight him. ⎡I didn’t change my mind. I—looked over and saw you, and I just…did.⎦

 _Dangerous_ , Charles provides himself: if Erik hasn’t actually made a choice to side with them, that’s terribly dangerous.

 _YES_ , Charles provides himself, more deeply felt than words, nothing to do with dangerous, and everything to do with need and want and not enough air and loving someone too much to stop, even when there’s as much hate left as love.

Erik’s face levels almost imperceptibly, a release in his jaw, in the muscles around his eyes. It used to be what passed as a shrug, for Erik. It probably still is. ⎡I don’t mind if I have to walk through Hell to find a place for our people, and I thought—I can live with you having to suffer, if that’s what it takes. And I didn’t realise he was planning to—consume you. But…it—became clear—that he’d have to enslave you for the rest of your life. That he was hurting you. That he was…forcing you into something else, and…⎦

⎡Thank you, Erik.⎦

It’s clear enough, in the space between minds, that Erik doesn’t accept the thanks; that’s fine, since genuine though it is, Charles isn’t sure he should be feeling grateful.

Erik’s eyes are cast down. ⎡I would have torn down the world for Nina.⎦

⎡Yes.⎦

⎡I would kill you in an instant to bring her back.⎦

Charles nods, just enough. ⎡Of course.⎦

The silence stretches long enough that Charles reaches, just a little, to see if Erik’s still going.

⎡He was going to make a world that would be safe for her.⎦

And Charles is entirely ready to counter that one, but-,

⎡But she’s already dead. And you’re still alive.⎦

*

Peter reappears (literally) after twenty minutes, having found a military airstrip where things at least still have their wings attached. No one’s keen on him carrying Hank that far, so they wait for Kurt; he arrives twelve minutes later, apologising profusely for his lateness. Kurt takes them all across two at a time in stone throws, leaps and starts, the end of a street and another and another. By the time they’re all present, Hank has picked what he thinks is the most in tact of the aircraft and is elbow deep in parts. Twenty minutes later, with quite a lot of profoundly unfriendly cooperation between Hank and Erik, the plane is judged viable. Charles is fairly sure they wouldn’t be getting in if they didn’t have Erik as a failsafe in case of mid-air failure, but they do, so the point is thankfully moot.

Hank wants to keep Charles up front, but Moira vetoes the co-pilot’s chair, on the grounds that Hank might actually need a co-pilot. She’s not wrong. Instead they line one of the bench seats with the mattress-attempt jackets, then have to take some of them off because Charles doesn’t fit in the seat. They wrap him in a space blanket from the plane’s med kit before Hank straps him into the spot with the clearest sightline from the pilot, because Hank is not taking his eyes off of Charles more than strictly necessary to fly a plane, and no one is arguing. Raven sits next to him and pretends not to fuss. Scott and Kurt are absolutely fussing over Jean, but she’s barely conscious so that’s probably not a bad thing. Charles would be fussing too, if he had the energy. Erik sits across from Charles and returns to watching them all, silent.

It isn’t really deliberate, barely over the Mediterranean, but it’s been decades since Charles could just sit in the wings of Erik’s mind, bask in the limina, and suddenly it’s fingertips stroking electric over the bare, too sensitive skin that seems to hug his skull. He gasps, can’t quite catch it—mocks a patient grimace of sudden pain at the eighty-five faces that immediately turn his way, murmurs, “I’m fine, sorry.”

In his mind, the gasp is a name.

The touch stops. ⎡Charles?⎦

⎡You used to do that a million years ago, think about running a hand through my hair. It feels oddly _more_ right now.⎦

⎡I didn't mean to project.⎦ Then, before Charles can admit that he wasn't, ⎡The skin’s been protected all your life. It’s sensitive.⎦

⎡There’s no reason my mental projection of it should be.⎦

⎡You’re smart, and your mind is powerful. You know it is, so it is.⎦

Then Erik does it again.

Charles does _not_ gasp this time, but it’s a near thing. ⎡God, Erik.⎦

Erik sort of hums, a low mental vibration that makes Charles want to kill him quite a lot. ⎡It’s…strange. You still look like you, but…different.⎦

That earns a mental glare, then another step into Erik’s mind, a brief sharing of his eyes, and Charles actually shudders back, physically, mentally. Emotionally, perhaps. ⎡God, I look like-,⎦

⎡You’ll always be beautiful. It doesn’t matter.⎦ Which, fuck, only Erik Lensherr, king of the utterly blunt.

⎡I don’t know _what_ I look like.⎦

⎡You look like Charles. My Charles.⎦

⎡I look like…an alien egg with eyes.⎦ Then he’s swearing again before Erik can quite answer that one. ⎡Fuck, I—I can’t even—I look like him. He was turning me into him.⎦ And his teeth are grit too tight now, Hank looking back and frowning, wide-eyed concern, but it’s… ⎡God, I—fuck.⎦

⎡Calm down, Charles.⎦

⎡Erik, he—he was inside me, God, and I—fuck. Fuck.⎦

⎡Look at me.⎦

And Charles does.

And Erik holds his gaze, steel and heat and the stretch of time, and Charles’s breathing slows.

Hank looks back again, and his eyes narrow—at Erik, not at Charles, probably never at Charles. “Are you stressing him?”

Erik’s face offers nothing. “How?”

“You’re talking to him, I can tell.”

“The last time I _let_ Charles Xavier into my head, you still thought you had a chance with his sister.”

⎡Erik.⎦ Charles is exhausted all over again, and nauseous, and appalled at his own body like he's never quite been, even after Cuba.

Hank glares out at the sky; Erik looks bland. Raven ignores them.

Erik runs his not-fingers over the new skin again.

⎡Erik.⎦

⎡How many times do you think I’ve touched you here?⎦

⎡What, on my head?⎦

⎡How many times have I held your skull in my palm, Charles? In the span of my fingers?⎦

It’s a creepy way to put it, but it’s—well, Erik. ⎡Stop that.⎦

⎡Stop what?⎦

⎡You know what.⎦

⎡A hundred times? Two hundred?⎦

⎡None, in recent history.⎦

Another touch, too light, insubstantial, too new, too sharp. ⎡I know the shape of you in my hands, Charles. Every part of you. Nothing’s changed but the hair.⎦

Not a light touch anymore, but a firm hold, gentle and yet-, and Charles can see both of Erik’s hands, long, strong fingers and dry, rough skin, resting on his knees across the plane, but there is also indisputably one cradling his head like it’s nothing, like it’s everything.

Charles bites his lip, hard. ⎡He was _inside_ me, Erik. I can’t shake it. It’s-,⎦

⎡Horrifying, I know. It’s alright.⎦

⎡God, I need to calm down.⎦

Both of Erik’s hands, cradling his head, invisible, insubstantial thumbs stroking at the corners of his eyes. ⎡You fought him back. Fought him out.⎦

⎡Jean did.⎦

⎡Both of you.⎦ A pause. ⎡She’s beautiful. Powerful.⎦

⎡She’s _good_ and _kind_ and if you try to get inside her head, Erik, I will tear you to pieces.⎦

⎡I’m sure she can make up her own mind.⎦

It’s a platitude, but it stands. Erik’s hands feel _so good_ on him (not on him, really), the familiar too-long-missed breadth of his hands, the strength in his fingers, the adoration in the way he moves them, in the way he’s always touched Charles, however they’ve fought—and Erik’s fingertips just barely twitch over the crown of his head, and the skin is _so sensitive_ (it can’t be that sensitive in physical reality, surely, surely), and Charles shivers head to toe at the strangeness, and the lightness, then sighs a sound he can’t quite help at Erik’s thumbs massaging his temples.

He takes a deep breath in through his nose, and reminds himself that he is not a young man, and that he has a lifetime of self control. He breathes out. ⎡Erik, leave it be. It’s too strange. I don’t want to think about it now.⎦

Erik’s hands still—and then withdraw. Charles wasn’t sure they would, not without him actually asking Erik to stop touching; they’ve always been allowed to push when it comes to thinking (in some ways, that’s most of what Charles has ever done for, done to, Erik, push him to think about more and more and more).

…And then the hands are back, the firm stroke of fingers over his jaw and down his neck, of Erik’s palm over his collarbone, until both hands press into his shoulders, steely fingers and the hard base of his palm kneading the muscles back and front, and Charles could swear his muscles actually respond.

⎡Eriiiiiiik.⎦

The tiniest quirk of a smile. ⎡Been a while since I’ve heard you whine like that, Charles.⎦

⎡I do not ‘whine’.⎦ Charles grits his teeth again, this time on a low moan that he manages not to voice. ⎡God that’s good.⎦

⎡Mm.⎦

⎡We're surrounded by students, Erik.⎦

⎡Jean’s asleep, isn’t she?⎦ Another very tiny smirk. ⎡But it’s your telepathy, Charles, not mine. If you don’t want to feel it, then don’t.⎦

Which, score one to Erik, because, well. Charles sort of grumbles. ⎡I’m weak to temptation.⎦

And Erik snorts. ⎡You’re not weak to anything, unless you want to be.⎦

⎡I hate you.⎦

⎡I love you.⎦

Which—only Erik fucking Lensherr, really.

*

They are over the ocean proper by the time Erik turns his face pointedly out toward the cockpit, where Charles cannot possibly glare at him, and trails one hand down from the shoulder, along the collarbone, then flicks one nipple hard with a thumb.

⎡Erik!⎦

Erik laughs at him telepathically, and does it again.

Charles bites his lip _hard_. ⎡How are you even still so good at this?⎦

⎡You taught me well.⎦ Erik presses the nipple of the moment hard into Charles’s chest, which is bizarre, because the mental stimulation is making the real, physical nipple stand very much upright, but God, Charles can _feel_ it being pushed flat. ⎡I haven’t been playing with other telepaths.⎦

⎡I don’t care who you fuck, Erik.⎦ Which is a lie, but.

⎡Are you sleeping with Hank?⎦

That, of course, makes Charles look up at Hank, who thankfully is facing forward. ⎡What? No!⎦

Erik’s scepticism is apparent.

Charles rolls his eyes. ⎡A little back in the 70s, but no. Not in years. Or I can assure you I would not be letting you-, fuck, have telepathic sex with me in a plane full of my students. Dear Lord.⎦

⎡Oh? Is that where this is going?⎦

Erik doesn’t need to actually part his lips for Charles to see his teeth; the predatory grin in his mind is just plenty.

**Author's Note:**

> Second half (i.e. the porn half of this scene, lol) will be later in the week :) (or rather next week, since today's Saturday)
> 
> (Also, JFC, could they not have casually worked a six month montage into the plot somewhere so that poor defenceless fic writers don't have to somehow get Erik interested in sex three days after his wife died X'D I HAVE BEEN STRUGGLING FOR TWO DAYS AND AM STILL NOT REALLY SURE THIS WORKS OH GOD X'D)


End file.
